Joy in Small Places
by moor
Summary: AU-ish. The Order were beside themselves at being unable to locate him, since his 'defection' to the Dark Lord at Dumbledore's passing at the end of the previous school year. But Dumbledore's orders had been clear: maintain his cover at all costs. The Order would need to find a way to reach him, if they required him. But by the gods, he prayed this wasn't it.
1. Disappointed

**Joy in Small Places.**

**Disclaimer: **HP and its respective characters are copyright JKR and all official rightsholders. I'm just a fan of the books.

**AN:** This story is AU effective the end of the Trio's sixth year (following Dumbledore's passing). Written primarily during NaNo 2011 & 2012, and heavily influenced/inspired by David Usher's "Joy in Small Places" (found on YouTube, if you haven't heard it before & are curious). This was my first HP-fic – concrit greatly appreciated, as I have no beta for this story. This story is written almost in its entirety and will be edited and updated… let's go with 'monthly' for now. Please note that all characters are over the age of 18.

* * *

><p>Severus Snape's footsteps halted immediately upon sight of the slumped figure pooled awkwardly on the floor before him. The current compound was completely untraceable—apart from his repeating portkey, even he couldn't have given away its location. The Order were beside themselves at being unable to locate him, since his 'defection' to the Dark Lord at Dumbledore's passing at the end of the previous school year. But Dumbledore's orders had been clear: maintain his cover at all costs. The Order would need to find a way to reach him, if they required him.<p>

But by the gods, he prayed this wasn't it.

"What is the meaning of this?"

His cold, emotionless words were very even and dropped silver-smooth into the darkness of the echoing dungeon cell. The ancient stone walls cast his words back at him, and the hints of accusation did not escape his notice. He hated surprises, and this was something he had hoped to never, ever see.

The body on the frigid, wet ground showed no evidence of having heard him. It was not even shivering, despite how agonizing the cold, slippery stones must feel on its nearly naked skin. He was not even sure it was breathing any longer.

She could not have been more than seventeen or eighteen. And the bruises were obvious even in the low light, due to the brilliant paleness of the once healthy, soft skin.

He schooled his expression into one of distaste as he viewed it critically while the other Death Eater spoke.

"The Dark Lord thought you may enjoy yourself for the evening with a reward, sir."

"If this is the reward, thank the heavens I didn't displease him. It doesn't look like it's good for anything anymore," he sneered, and nudged it with the toe of his heavy black boot. A faint exhale, just barely. But obviously the poor thing was too far gone to even protest properly. Disgust rolled through him on an ugly tide, dredging up old memories and emotions. They blended mindlessly together as they crashed down. But he had to keep his wits about him, and the Potions Master grounded himself and forced himself to pay attention to what the other man said.

"What with how awful you've mentioned your students are, the Dark Lord thought you would appreciate being able to teach one her proper place. And this one's a Mudblood—the worst of the lot," the other man spat on the still figure.

It took every ounce of self-control Severus had not to lash out at the man with an Unforgivable the moment the hated word left his lips.

"For how long? Do I return her for an exchange in the morning? If she makes it that far?" he found himself asking instead, his mind grimly working out what his options were given her pitiful state.

"Yours to keep; but he said you would be cleaning up if there was more mess than usual."

"Of course."

He waited a moment.

To the other man's horror, Snape's eyes seemed to turn warm, and he shook out his shoulders to stave off the uneasiness that had settled there.

As placid as ever, Snape gazed down at her, trying to assess her condition. His 'colleague' just barely registered on his periphery as he mentally tallied her wounds and their likely causes. When he kneeled down beside her, he heard the other man's shoes scuff wetly as he took a cautionary step back.

_Probably thinks I'm going to shag her corpse, re-animate her, kill her once more, then shag her again_, mused Snape, and he made sure he did nothing to change the man's opinion an iota. The more disturbed the other man was, the less likely he was to return or investigate.

"Is there anything else?" Severus drawled, looking at the other man for the first time. His eyes pinned him, making the lesser Death Eater squirm.

"No."

"Then you're free to return to your duties. Please let the Dark Lord know I fully appreciate my gift and will be expressing it to him personally as soon as I'm finished with it." He looked down thoughtfully once more. "It may be a while," he said softly.

The door shut, closing Severus in with his former student.

He cast a silencing spell for privacy and reached out gently to push aside a lock of curly, brown hair.

"Granger, I had thought you weren't as stupid as the others," he said quietly, his velvet voice too controlled to show concern.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: To be continued.<strong>


	2. Imbalance

**Chapter 2: Imbalance**

He gave her Death Eater robes to wear, her first day.

Made her shower daily, and eat.

On the first night, he made her calming draught for her nightmares.

On the first morning, he made her come to his breakfast, if only to ensure that no one would sneak into his rooms to finish her off while he was away.

After a week of interrupted sleep due to her scream-inducing nightmares, he picked her up and carried her to his bed until her trembling calmed and she drifted off to sleep.

This continued nightly until one evening she just walked straight from the bathroom, in her pyjamas—one of his worn shirts and some old boxers—into his bedroom to slip under his covers and wait for him. Resigned, he climbed in after her and put his arm over her waist protectively, as he had every night.

Strangely, he found he slept better with her beside him, too.

* * *

><p>There was a small problem of some importance and embarrassment, about two weeks later.<p>

Huffing in irritation, he knocked patiently on the door to the bathroom—again—and tried to get her to come out.

"If you would come out, we can resolve this," he tried not to growl.

Her reply was quite impolite.

"Oh for heaven's sakes," he snapped, and kicked open the door. Inside, he found her wrapped up in a towel, huddled in the shower, her still-wet hair long and plastered against the bare skin of her neck, shoulders and back. Her cheeks were burning and so was her glare.

"Stand up," he ordered.

She shook her head vehemently, and prepared to curse him again, he was sure—so he cast a _silencio_ spell upon her pre-emptively.

Her glare burned a hundredfold more viciously.

He was fine with that, and raised an eyebrow at her, flicking his wand up to indicate she really should stand up and just get this over with.

Hermione's fists were as tight and hard as bezoars when she finally stood, and he noticed she was trembling in shame that he saw her this way.

Refusing to sigh, he focused on her belly.

She fidgeted in place, and truly, he could not blame her. His experience as a Head of House had given him some direction in how to handle such situations, but the circumstances then compared to now were diametrically opposed in many ways, so he would just have to go with his best guess on how to fix their current arrangement.

"Obviously, they aren't teaching you everything in your health classes, or you would have probably done this spell to yourself ages ago," he drawled. Then, more sensitively, "It won't hurt—and it will stop your menses indefinitely, until you restore them again. I will show you the spell to reverse this charm, obviously, so you have full control over it. It was developed by an Auror for when their agents would impersonate others undercover. It is perfectly safe—now stay still and for Merlin's sake, don't hit me while I do this."

A few minutes later he removed the silencing spell and sent her to bathe again and assured her she would not feel any further discomfort; he left his rooms entirely to give her privacy, and when he returned that evening, it was to find his entire suite of rooms had been cleaned top to bottom, all the linens freshened, and all his loose books returned to their proper places on the shelves (apart from the ones he'd been actively reading—she had placed bookmarks in them and stacked them neatly on his desk).

Considering he did not let the house-elves into his private living space, and he had so little time to do his own cleaning, it had been a fairly large undertaking and he was grateful to no longer be living in a sty.

"I take it you're feeling better," he remarked upon seeing her, more a statement than a question, and continued looking around. "I don't remember the last times these rooms looked so thoroughly _scourgified_," he added with some incredulity. She had been busy.

"You're out of bleach," she said a bit awkwardly, and then took a breath and jumped back into the conversation, "If you could pick up some more, I can do the lab."

He watched her a moment, but she did not fidget any longer and seemed far more relaxed than she had that morning. Her eyes were not shifty and she did not look away. He sensed no intention to plot behind her large, innocent eyes.

"Hm," he said non-committally.

* * *

><p>The Dark Lord had summoned him.<p>

Hermione had seen the flash of pain across his face before he had hidden it from her, tucking his arm into his robe; and though he had acted like all was well, she could read a hint of anxiety in the set of his shoulders for a moment before he had put on his usual impenetrable persona of 'Snape'.

She wondered what had made him so anxious, but decided it would not do to dwell on what could be. Instead, she went straight for the small cache of deadly potions she had managed to concoct from the everyday chemicals she found through his—their—rooms, and double-checked her emergency escape bag. If something happened to him, she was ready to fight her way out or die trying.

It was three long days that she was left alone before she saw him again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I admit, I am not editing this story too thoroughly. If you see any mistakes, please let me know in the comments. <strong>** I am happy to fix them so they irritate you less. :)**


	3. Opened

He had slumped to the ground as soon as he saw Granger recognise him on the other side of the doorway. He had not had the strength to make it any further. He did not feel the floor rushing up to meet him. It was just blessedly, peacefully black.

She must have bathed him and changed his clothes; he awoke in his—their—bed some time later (almost forty hours, he thought he heard her say when he asked, but that must have been wrong), and she had food for him. He wondered briefly if she had poisoned it, but then dismissed the thought. If she'd wanted him dead, he had presented himself to her fully incapable of defence a day (or three) ago, and she had not taken the opportunity. There was no point in offing him now if she had wasted that chance.

Still a bit delirious (he would realise only later), he looked at her blearily and mumbled, "You could have killed me, finally been free to escape."

She merely raised a brow at his chastising (who had she learned that supercilious expression from, he wondered), and replied, "You still haven't taught me the counter-spell. Sir," she absently tacked on the last at the end, for courtesy's sake.

Their eyes met for a moment before he snorted and turned away.

* * *

><p>When he was able to walk again, he stubbornly went for his travelling cloak and pulled out a shrunken box from one of the inside pockets. With a tap of his wand—she had made sure it was within his reach at all times, the considerate, paranoid, <em>smart<em> girl—he expanded the small box until it was a slightly larger one, about the side of a jewellery box.

He passed it to her without a word.

When she refused to open it, he growled out an order to do so immediately, it would not bite—unless he cursed it, which he threatened he just might do, so she removed the top straightaway.

She did not understand.

It was plain as day on her face.

Her muggle upbringing and associations were perverting what he had thought would be obvious to another wizard or witch.

"Put them on," he snapped, tired and already half-regretting his efforts. _And stop looking like that_, he wanted to add.

She looked up at him blankly, some emotion behind her eyes that he could not understand or name.

Cursing under his breath, he strode over and removed the bracelet, necklace, and ring from the box, sliding each into place on her; she felt them magically adjust to fit her. (And would later find them impossible to remove, when she tried to undress for her shower).

"What…" she couldn't find the words, and looked up at him in question again.

He eyed them on her critically before stepping back, somewhat relieved or satisfied, she couldn't tell which. They had lived together in his rooms for almost two months now, and she was far better at reading him than before—but that still was not saying much, considering his formidable Occlumency skills, among other personal traits.

"These are not romantic gifts," he explained and for once there was no sneer in his tone with regards to that particular topic. "These are for your own protection. Together, they will allow you to travel through the wards so you can navigate through the building, whether with me or on your own." Her eyes widened in alarm, and he shook his head. "Usually, you will be with me. But if we are in the lab and I am summoned, or if you must make you way through for some other reason, they will allow you to travel unhindered, without summoning a league of Death Eaters as if you were an intruder. Next, they will connect us, in a way: if you are hurt, or if something happens—in case of emergencies, shall we say—they will alert me, and I'll be able to _apparate_ to you. Perhaps not immediately, depending on the situation, but I will as soon as I can."

Her face was tight and pale, and she nodded gravely in understanding.

He nodded once curtly and continued.

"Finally, they will also protect you from curses, hexes, and in general most forms of physical harm. It isn't foolproof—it can't protect you from an Unforgivable, for example, or from someone who truly means to kill you, but you will have a shield of sorts, at least temporarily, should you need it."

She swallowed and looked down at the ring on her finger.

"You're going away again, aren't you? For some time?"

There was no point in lying to her.

"Several weeks."

"I can't come with you?" she asked without thinking. The three days he had been gone before had been filled with nightmares and fear and only her own horrific imagination for company. She was not looking forward to becoming her own worst enemy again.

"You wish to become a Death Eater, Granger?" he asked harshly, his gaze narrowing.

She shook her head, her long hair falling forward to hide her burning face. No, she could not stomach that. Her hair was so long it weighed down the curls now to waves that passed her chest and fell most of the way down her back. She needed a haircut desperately, it had become so long since she had been trapped there; but he never left scissors or knives out around her. She was sure it was because he would never forgive himself if he found her dead by her own hand when he could have prevented it.

She would have been right.

"You're coming back, though? It isn't… too… dangerous?"

She followed him into his—their—bedroom and slipped under his covers, waiting for him. He turned his back to her and undid his shirt, undid his belt, undid the buttons and zipper to his trousers before shedding them all and coming to bed, and she made a bit more room for him.

She felt as much saw his shrug of indifference, answering her question. Of course it was dangerous, but when wasn't it, really?

As usual, she was cold and hesitantly slipped her feet up to his legs—he trapped them between both of his, refusing to shudder at just how freezing cold her feet really were (were all young women like this, he wondered, all soft skin and frigid feet?...).

"You're welcome to wear socks to bed," he remarked sardonically. "In fact, with me going away for a bit, I'd recommend it."

"This is faster," she mumbled to her pillow.

He hmph'd, and closed his eyes.

"When do you leave?"

"The day after tomorrow," he replied tiredly. "Is there anything you need before I go?"

She mumbled something into her pillow, and he opened one eye to glance at her.

"Hmm? Didn't catch that."

"Nothing."

He doubted that, but she did not elaborate and he closed his eyes again, settling in.

"Er, more razor blades, actually," she added a moment later, somewhat embarrassed.

"Razor blades?..." Why would she need—visions of her opening her wrists up immediately assaulted him, and he just barely held himself neutral—the urge to leap up in bed, grab her by the shoulders and shake sense into her had nearly overwhelmed him for a heartbeat or two, and he only now felt that heartbeat hammering in his chest, against his ribcage and all his insides, it was so strong. She had not shown any signs of suicidal tendencies, but one could never be one hundred percent certain.

Sure that he would be able to discern if she were lying, though, and to stop his imagination running away from him, he opened one eye again once he calmed himself.

"Why would you need those?" he asked cautiously.

"For my legs, obviously!" she exclaimed, embarrassed, and it went unspoken, _among other areas_.

Oh. Right. He had not considered that, though he should have, he realised. She had only been sleeping beside him for months already, and he had thought to himself before how nice it was to accidentally slide their legs against each other in bed, hers being so soft and silky smooth…

He cut the inappropriate train of thought off immediately, startled at himself and the paths those ideas led to.

But if she was only asking now….

"What have you been using up until now, then?"

"Yours."

There was a beat of awkward silence before he cleared his throat.

"First thing in the morning, I'll nip out."

"Thank you."

He would get a whole damn box of safety razors. And he would charm them into not being able to cut her skin, yes, that's exactly what he would do… Just in case.

"Anything else?" he dreaded the answer.

She paused.

"… underwear would be… convenient."

Oh bloody Hell's nine bells. 

* * *

><p>AN: To be continued<p> 


End file.
